


You will be known among strangers as the Doctor's wife

by leiascully



Series: There Will Be Other Dances [10]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:09:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I shan't be offended if it's remembered that I was yours and you were mine."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You will be known among strangers as the Doctor's wife

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: N/A; fits in with the rest of my head!canon stories  
> Concrit: Welcome  
> A/N: The title is cribbed and modified from "The Cinnamon Peeler's Wife", the Michael Ondaatje poem I found in the "[possession/marking](http://kink-wiki.dreamwidth.org/8287.html)" entry on the [**kink_wiki**](http://kink-wiki.dreamwidth.org/) (as this is for my [**kink_bingo**](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) card. The poem's about marking your lover with scent; I stuck to tattoos. This story pays gentle and loving homage to [**krabapple**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/krabapple/)'s fic [Cracks](http://krabapple.livejournal.com/384097.html), in which River meets Rose, and [**loneraven**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/loneraven/)'s fic [Pastoral Care](http://loneraven.livejournal.com/707633.html), in which the Twelfth Doctor is a Time Lady (spoilers, sweetie). They're both wonderful and you ought to read them. [**coffeesuperhero**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/coffeesuperhero/) has the patience of a saint.  
>  Disclaimer: _Doctor Who_ and all related characters are the property of Russell T. Davies, Stephen Moffat, and BBC. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

He peels the bandage off River's back - her new tattoo is completely healed. New to her, not to him; he'd seen them both long before she ever thought of getting them. She was wearing a very flattering and mostly backless dress the day he proposed, in fact (today it's a flattering and mostly backless blouse). No, the Gallifreyan words on her shoulder blades are nothing he hasn't seen a hundred times, though he's secretly pleased every time. This is the first time he's seen one freshly done, however. He rubs lotion into the tender skin and she arches into his touch.

"Home," he says, tracing the lines with his fingertip, leaving pale lines of lotion in his wake. "You know, it's a bit silly of you to get a tattoo that nobody else in the universe can read anymore."

"You said that last time," she says. "Ooh, sorry, sweetie, spoilers. Anyway, I don't want anybody else to be able to read it. I don't mind people knowing I belong with you."

He snorts. "Not much chance of anyone mistaking it. No one in the universe has ever treated me the way that you do."

"Oh, now," she says, looking at him skeptically over her shoulder. "It's not so bad as all that, my love."

"I'm serious!" he insists. "Someone once asked me if you were going to be my wife one day, based on the mere fact that you spoke to me, well...the way she described it was 'Heel, boy'."

"Perceptive," River says with a grin. "Whoever that person was, they are very, very good."

"I wasn't complaining, mind," he says. "I was just informing you."

"And I'm informing you that I look forward to our wedding," she tells him, her voice possessive. "It's very interesting to be married first and wedded second."

"We live a special set of lives, you and I," he says, still diligently rubbing the lotion into her smooth skin. "But I made a promise that I wouldn't let you forget that we did have a wedding, once. You'll go down in history for it - I've seen it in the books, quite a number of places, actually. And you'll look very pretty."

"It's a bit flattering," she says. "To be the Doctor's wife."

"Better than some other things I've heard you called over the years, my criminal element," he quips. "But it's not all that you are, River."

"I know that, you idiot." She turns around and throws her arms around his neck. "We're a little more advanced than that when I come from. River Song won't be put in a box, not unless she asks for it herself. But it sends a little tingle up my spine, you know. The Doctor's _wife_. Implies all sorts of illicit things, doesn't it? What exactly do Time Lords do between the sheets?" She rubs her body against his, smirking. He can't help blushing just a bit. "And as an added bonus, it strikes fear into the hearts of my enemies and yours. The Doctor's Companions, well, who knows where they've come from - they end up splendid, but they tend to start out perplexed, bless them. But the Doctor's wife - now that's a terrifying thought. Not just a Companion, but a partner in life. An equal, after all you've been and done. Someone who _can_ call you to heel."

"That's a much nicer interpretation," he says, letting her go.

"You are so terribly old-fashioned sometimes. Too long in the dark ages, my love." She cranes her head over her shoulder, trying to look at her back. "I don't belong to you. I belong _with_ you."

"I didn't write the stories that way," he protests, pushing his hair out of his face. "It isn't my fault they had bad ideas about what a wife ought to be. Words have baggage, you know. I just worry people might think that way."

"There was never any story written about me with _those_ ideas," she tells him, coming back and touching each of his shirt buttons. "There are as many sorts of wives as there are women, you know. Not in any time could they imagine I was some sort of timid stay-at-home. More like Boudicea or Hippolyta or one of those, not that they all had husbands."

" _Much_ more like one of those," he agrees. "Or Liz the First, there was a hell of a woman."

She laughs and claps her hands. "What being in the whole of history could _marry_ the Doctor? What on earth could that even mean? It would take a very complicated space-time event indeed."

"You're a legend in your own time," he says, gazing down at her. "And all times, really."

"That's right, my love," she says, putting her arms around his waist. "And I've worked very hard for it, too. But in every age of man, they know your name. The Doctor. The madman in the blue box. The good wizard at the end of the fairy story. To be the Doctor's wife, then - at least I won't be forgotten. Easier to remember through the eras than any other name. It was a hell of a lot to do in a less-than-immortal span of time. I'm not just lumped in with you, sweetie. We threw our lots in together. Why shouldn't I be proud to share your name? It was my choice. I'm always choosing you, my love. At your side, on your side. Shoulder to shoulder."

Despite the timey-wimey bits, she still manages to surprise him.

"I thought you would be unhappy," he says. "I thought you would think it diminished you."

"To lose my name and take yours?" She shrugs. "I suppose you could think of it that way. It might have done. But to be remembered at all, to be with you until the very end - that's a rare privilege. Singular, I think."

"You're not my first wife," he points out.

"And I may not be your last," she says, touching his face. "But you're mine, my first and my last and my Doctor. So why would I be diminished? Why would I be anything less than I am now? To find a great love is a rare thing, even in these wide worlds. I shan't be offended if it's remembered that I was yours and you were mine."

The thought somehow thrills him to his bones. To be hers, to belong to River fully, and to possess her just the same: the meeting of equals, rare enough since the death of his world, and the meeting of lovers. She has never hesitated to face him down or to bear him up.

"I suppose it could have just as easily been 'River's husband'," he tells her. "Or 'the Doctor's husband' - you are a doctor in your own right."

Her eyes sparkle. "Yes, it could have been. You got a hell of a head start."

"I'll rewrite the history books," he says lightly. "Or at least a few display cards in the museums."

"Oh, my love, I didn't do it for the glory," she tells him. "I did it for you. I did it for us. I did it for joy. I did it for right, and occasionally for wrong, and every now and again just for fun. I might be the person I am today because of what we are to each other, but I chose that. You cast a long shadow."

"Perhaps it's because you shine so brightly," he tells her.

"Flatterer," she says, affection in her voice. "You need to work on your technique there, sweetie. Not sure I'd go home with you, if you tried that line."

"You've never complained about my techniques before," he says, stroking the small of her back. "Besides, you're already home with me."

"Yes," she says, suddenly serious. "Wherever you are, that's home." She touches the top of her shoulder. "That's why I got this, you know." She drops her eyes, looking almost shy. "We don't have rings and I haven't said our vows yet, but I wanted something to remind me that whatever happens, we belong to each other. Whatever happens, you're home."

"Something that I only I can read," he says. "A sign to bind us together. Not just showing off, then."

"Showing off a little," she says with a smile. "But mostly to remind me that even in the dark times, there are bright days to come. Together."

"River," he says in a voice that nearly shakes, thinking of the Library.

"Shhh," she says.

"Put your mark on me," he tells her.

"What?"

"You marked yourself," he says, touching his fingertip to her right shoulder blade. "'Home', it says. And 'journey', those are both for us, aren't they? Very non-traditional, us, you're right - no jewelry, no signifiers. I never know, when we meet, what you know or who we are, and neither do you know what I know. But you marked yourself because it matters, this thing between us. It matters more to you than your name does, River Song, and that...." He pauses. "That is a wonder. So I'd like you to mark me, please, because it matters to me too, and because I'm sorry it won't be River's husband in his strange blue box."

"Don't be," she says. "All the others deserve their share of the credit. You might as well have been Martha's man in the blue box, or Donna's mate. Oh, yes, I've heard all the stories. You're the constant, you're the myth, and we know that."

"Make me yours," he insists. "Put your mark on me."

"A tattoo?" she asks dubiously. "Sweetie, I have many skills, but so far, that isn't one of them."

"Doesn't have to be," he tells her. "Anything. I've run from belonging to anyone for a long time. It's time to stop running." He looks into her eyes, astounded at the depth of feeling he finds there: the hunger, the passion, the sorrow, the joy, all of it bound up together the way their hearts are bound together.

"I met Rose once, you know," she says after a moment. "It's an awfully small universe sometimes. And I don't think...I don't think there's any of us who don't leave a mark on you somewhere."

He's quiet. There's not a one of them he's forgotten. There's not one he could forget. He tries to live in the moment, to be with the one he's with (he is astounded that Martha forgave him, after all of that), but he has had plenty of long dark evenings to remember. He knows the TARDIS has kept all of their rooms, somewhere; nothing is ever gone entirely which can be remembered, and he remembers them all. River smiles at him as if she knows what he's thinking.

"Still," she goes on, a wicked little smile curling the corners of her mouth, "I don't mind  
branding you a bit, if you're up for it."

"I can hardly back down now," he says, a bit intimidated by the enthusiasm in her eyes.

"No," she agrees. "There's no going back once you're mine. And you are _my_ Doctor."

"There's no denying your claim on me," he teases her.

"Go on," she tells him, leaning back and crossing her arms. "Go to bed, Doctor."

"Ah," he says. "All right." He turns his back and puts his hands in his pockets. He can't say he dislikes it when she speaks to him this way; there's growing evidence he likes it quite a bit, actually. Honor and obey goes both ways between them.

She follows him down the corridor, of course, at a reasonable enough distance that he has time to shed most of his clothing before she comes in. She's dropped hers along her path, apparently. She's a glorious sight, naked except for the ink that pledges her allegiance to _them_ , this idea of unity beyond time. She stands on tiptoe to kiss him, pretending to ignore that he's gone hard just looking at her, except that her fingers curl around his prick as her tongue slides against his.

"Lie down," she tells him, and he eases down onto the bed. She kneels next to him, looking speculative. "Now where to start," she says, dipping her head so that her hair brushes his bare chest, his belly, his thighs.

"Everywhere," he tells her.

She sits back, an expression on her face that combines thoughtful and mischievous in one fetching smirk. She looks him over with an approving, appraising, possessive stare. "It could be you, you know."

"What?"

"The Doctor's wife," she says. "It's not out of the realm of possibility that you could be a woman next time around. Yes, I quite like that. Doctor River Song and her wife, the Doctor. Mind you, it would be a bit timey-wimey, but make sure you come back for me."

"I will," the Doctor promises. He hasn't yet been back to the Library, but he knows he will go. No need yet, not while she's flesh and blood in front of him with that predatory look in his eyes. She bends without speaking, fencing him in with her arms, and then her hot mouth is against the thin skin of his chest. She sucks hard at his flesh, and the scrape of her teeth and the pressure of her tongue are enough to make him clutch at the bed covers, trying to stay still. He can feel the delicate roughness of her tongue as it kneads at him, in sharp contrast to her sharp teeth and soft lips. The sensation goes straight to his prick and he presses his hips into the mattress, trying to hold onto the sensation. When she lets go, it's a relief and a disappointment both.

"Rather traditional, I'm afraid," she says, raising her head enough to survey her work. "But it'll do, won't it?"

He cranes his neck. There's a livid red kiss on his breastbone, just above one of his hearts. A love bite. "It is fairly unmistakable," he says.

"Good," she says fiercely.

"Not quite what I expected," he tells her.

"Did you think I was finished, sweetie?" she asks, sounding amused. "How adorable. I'm certainly not done with you." She bends again and moments later, he's got a matching mark over the other heart. Then she's on to his neck, his shoulders, his belly, his inner thighs, and he writhes on the bed in delicious agony, wanting more. He wants her mouth all over him; he he wants his mouth all over her; he almost wishes he didn't know better than to play along with her game, because what he'd like to do is grab her and just pull her down on top of him so that he can have every inch of her skin against his. By the time she's finished, he's covered in marks and positively aching for want of her.

"No one will mistake you for anyone else's now," she says with satisfaction. "Turn over."

"That'll be uncomfortable," he protests.

She clicks her tongue. "On your side, then. I want to make absolutely certain you know you're mine. Maybe you ought to get a tattoo after all. Do you think it would last through your next regeneration as a Time Lady?"

He shivers in delight at the thought of being owned by her, bearing her emblem to the end of his days. He wonders if it would rewrite time, if he'd have her mark through all his lives. He could claim it as a birthmark; her name would be the map of his destiny. Not his only love, but a reminder in his darker days that he will be loved and love in kind. _Take me_ , he wants to tell her, _own me, claim me_. He would never be alone again, tied to the memory of her. The thought is unbearably sexy, and the fact that her mouth is still sucking at his shoulder only makes it worse (or better - his current point of view says that it's _much_ better). He can hardly breathe for wanting her, loving her, for his gratefulness that she's willing to lay claim to him. How many years has he longed to belong to someone, to something, to a cause or a love greater than himself, and here is River making her mark on him.

"I'm yours," he promises (anything to get her to touch him, anything to keep her hands and her mouth on him, anything to reaffirm their hold on each other). "I'm yours, I'm yours, River. And you're mine, you're my River, my doctor of archaeology, my miracle snatched out of her time." He's wittering on and he doesn't even care - she's nipping at the back of his thigh now, and it's too much to bear.

"Of course I'm yours," she says into the hollow of his back, when she's finished with the excruciatingly arousing process of leaving a love bite on the back of his thigh. "I belong to you nearly as much as I belong to me, and that's really all you could ask."

"It's everything," he agrees, panting. "It's the greatest thing." He's not sure what he's saying, but she must be right. They belong to each other, after all; she wouldn't lead him astray. They've looked out for each other all this time and she hasn't once shot him or done him any lasting harm, aside from breaking his heart, and that retroactively. There are days he positively yearns to warn her away from the Library, but she'd never forgive him. All he can do is hold onto these moments of belonging. These are the good times, when they're nearly aligned; these are the halcyon days.

She turns him back over and surveys him with satisfaction. "One more, I think," she says, and touches her lips to the crease of his thigh. His knee jerks in reflex and she pins him down with her body, using her tongue and her teeth on his ticklish skin, stroking and nipping and licking and sucking until he's gasping, his back arched.

"Mine," she says, low and fervent, lifting her head.

"Yours," he agrees, basking in the heat of her fierce, loving glare. "Mine."

"Yours," she promises, straddling him and guiding him in at last. They both groan in relief and pleasure. She picks up his hand and kisses his fingers, sucking lightly at the tips until he has to curl his hand into a fist because it's all too much. He moves that hand down to stroke her; his other hand cups her breast. She moans, her back arching, her hips canting into the pressure of his fingers.

"My Doctor," she says over and over, gazing into his eyes.

"My River," he affirms. "For all time."

"Forever," she promises, and it doesn't matter that it's not true, not now, not when they're bound so close together that he almost thinks they could stop time if they just hoped a little harder. He pulls her down to kiss her, to lay his palm over the smooth place on her shoulder, to tell her with his touch all he can't say. _I am to my beloved as my beloved is to me_ , he thinks: he read that somewhere too.

"Yours," he pledges; it's all he can do.

"Yours," she says, and that's all he needs.


End file.
